


Amazing

by codswallop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 12:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade can't figure out what it is his new consultant wants from him. (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle prompts "frustration, rough, crime scene." Contains rough sex.

His sergeant is right; the kid is dead weird. Looks like an alien, talks like a madman, knows far too much about...well, everything. Even the name is too bizarre. He's unreal. He ought not to be allowed. Lestrade's solve rate has gone up by 75% ever since he started employing Sherlock Holmes as an off-the-books consultant, though, and you can't argue with those numbers.

If only he weren’t such a fucking infuriating little shit to deal with.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but there is such a thing as police procedure,” Lestrade tells him, for what feels like the hundredth time that month. “I’m not making this up, you know. I’ll lose my job, and then what? Good luck getting someone else to let you in past the tape.”

“Find a way around it,” Sherlock snaps, walking rapidly ahead of him down the lane. “Or don’t. I really don’t mind. I gave you the answers, didn’t I? It’s no concern of mine that you’re too simple-minded even to--”

Lestrade catches him up and whirls him round, shoves him up against the brick wall by one thin shoulder. “You don’t get to talk to me that way.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock looks amused. He gives Lestrade a suggestive once-over, his eyes bright and glittering beneath half-hooded lids.

“No. And you’re fucking high again, aren’t you? Don’t answer that. I shouldn’t know.” He gives Sherlock an extra, vicious little shove before letting him go and walking on.

Sherlock follows after him. “Police brutality,” he chides. “Is that your idea of proper procedure?” Lestrade ignores him, striding ahead. “Oh, come on, Lestrade, don’t be like that. It was a brilliant solve and you know it. You’re the only one on your team with enough sense to know it. Or do you?”

“Fuck off,” Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock seizes his elbow. “Tell me it was brilliant.”

“Jesus _christ_.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. You could say I’m amazing, though.”

Lestrade turns on him again and gives him a harder shove, pinning him up against the wall with both hands this time, and Sherlock begins to laugh. “You're amazingly _stupid_ ,” Lestrade says. “I could run you in. You’re probably holding right now.”

“Mmm. You want to search me, Inspector?”

Sherlock’s breath is quick, and he’s staring intently at Lestrade’s mouth, his own lips slightly parted, tongue darting out to wet them as he waits to see what Lestrade will do. _Crime scenes turn me on,_ he’d said once. Rough trade turns him on, too, apparently. Anger, pursuit, adrenalin rush. Not to mention the effects of whatever he’s using.

Or else he’s acting. Could be. Probably is. He should have gone on the stage, Lestrade’s told him, the way he can fake up human reactions--and it’s uncanny to watch him drop the mask the moment it no longer suits his purpose. 

“I’m not,” Sherlock says, watching him. “Could I fake this, do you think?” He grabs Lestrade’s left hand and drags it down his body, guiding it to his crotch, and Lestrade cups him there reflexively, feeling him through his jeans. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and he moans a little. He’s hard and growing harder, his erection pushing insistently into Lestrade's palm.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Lestrade tells him. He should walk away, he knows. If Sherlock’s not acting, then what? Either he’s being manipulated by a clever kid in a back alley not six hundred yards from a murder scene, or he’s taking advantage of an underfed drug addict who gets off on looking at dead bodies and being manhandled by authority figures. He can’t possibly let this happen.

Not again. He’d promised himself, the last time. But his hand is still sliding slowly up and down, drawn by the evidence of Sherlock’s arousal. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock pleads in a whimper, eyes still shut, throat bobbing as he swallows, and he has _got_ to be putting at least some of it on--the knowledge infuriates Lestrade. He wants to scare Sherlock into dropping the pretense, maybe even hurt him a little, he wants to flip him round to face the wall and rip his jeans down and--

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, watching him again, chin tipped up to expose his pale throat. His eyes are wide and dark. “Whatever you’re thinking. Do that. Do it to me.”

The air leaves his lungs with a satisfying grunt when Lestrade spins him and pushes him chest-first against the building. “That what you wanted?” Lestrade says quietly into his ear, pressing his hips up against Sherlock’s arse and grinding back and forth once or twice, letting him feel the full weight of him. “You want me inside you, you want to get fucked?”

Sherlock gives a little moan of assent and then nods, scraping his face against the rough brick--it has to hurt, Lestrade thinks. 

“Then no,” Lestrade tells him. “You’re not getting what you want.” He eases off a bit, just enough so that Sherlock has room to squirm against him, then leans back in and murmurs “Suck me off instead.”

Sherlock’s on his knees the moment the words are out, his hands trembling on Lestrade’s flies, and there’s only an instant to register the cold unaccustomed air on his privates before Sherlock's got his mouth around him, hot and wet and slick-smooth-deep. “Ah,” Lestrade gasps, tangling a hand into Sherlock’s wild hair, trying not to pull. “Christ. Good, that's so good.” Sherlock responds by taking him deeper, making himself gag a bit--oh, god, that shouldn't be hot. “Go slower,” Lestrade commands. “And--and get your jeans open, I want you to touch yourself while you’re making me come.”

Sherlock obeys.

*

“You’ve got an absolutely filthy mouth, Inspector,” Sherlock says, when they're tucked in and zipped up again, sitting against the wall side by side and sharing the last cigarette in Lestrade’s pack.

Lestrade is probably blushing; he hopes it’s too dim for Sherlock to see. “Yeah. Well. Yours is _obscene._ ” He wants to reach over and run his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip, but it’s too gentle a gesture for whatever it is they’ve just done. He looks away quickly. “I’ll give you one thing, anyway: that, you, _that_ was amazing.”

Even that was too much to have said, probably, too soft, too soppy, wrong answer--Sherlock shifts from relaxed to edgy again in an instant, and after another drag on the cigarette he throws it down and gets to his feet. “You know how to reach me if there’s anything else of interest,” he says, and walks swiftly away while Lestrade is still trying to figure out how his legs work again, let alone his brain. 

Definitely, definitely never again, he tells himself. This time for certain.


End file.
